


Advent of the Season

by elizabethelizabeth



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables, 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge (Good Omens), 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge 2019 (Good Omens), Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Ficlet Collection, Ineffable Advent Calendar, Kissing, Mistletoe, Multi, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, References to The Nutcracker, Russia, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:41:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21635269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethelizabeth/pseuds/elizabethelizabeth
Summary: “They’re sending me to Rome, apparently. I’m supposed to leave tomorrow to arrive by Christmas, perform some holiday miracles.”“Thwart some pagan rituals? Gorge on panettone?”The look Aziraphale gives in response is chastising, but not argumentative.31 days on the calendar, 31 holiday fics.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 96





	1. mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> the enormously talented [drawlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drawlight) is hosting a [Good Omens Holiday Challenge](https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/188869931294/aziraphale-crowley-for-half-an-hour-youve-been) for December and I couldn't NOT join that action! I'm going to attempt to post a fic every day; we'll see how that works out.

It’s the latter half of 1793 when Crowley visits Aziraphale’s bookshop for the first time, on a late afternoon in late December, for a meeting he’s late for.

“I was expecting you for tea, Crowley.”

“I don’t even know when tea  _ is _ , angel.”

The bookshop has been open for a few months now, and it already bears stifling layers of dust and must. That is, of course, what all the other bookshops Aziraphale visited smelled like, and the angel’s establishment was going to be no exception.

“Really, Crowley. You could at least pretend to keep up with the times.”

The derisive laugh Crowley lets out is enough of a retort, if not a very good one. He roams the rows and scours the shelves of Aziraphale’s collection, picking books up at random, putting them back in the wrong place. “Anyway, I’m here now.”

“I’ve got this gorgeous fig jam for the scones, would you care for some?”

It’s definitely past tea time now, but that wouldn’t stop Aziraphale. “Go ‘head. I’m shopping.”

“I rather think you aren’t, dear boy.” Aziraphale means to sound scolding, but he can’t, really. Not in an angel’s purview to scold anyone too thoroughly. He spreads gorgeous fig jam on a scone instead.

Crowley slithers back the way he came, unable to sit still, and a little unable to ignore the sounds of Aziraphale eating. “What’s the news on your end?”

Aziraphale finishes the scone, which Crowley is a little sad about. “They’re sending me to Rome, apparently. I’m supposed to leave tomorrow to arrive by Christmas, perform some holiday miracles.”

“Thwart some pagan rituals? Gorge on panettone?”

The look Aziraphale gives in response is chastising, but not argumentative.

Crowley leans against the door frame towards what he assumes is the book shop’s backroom. “Well, it’s no Saturnalia.”

Aziraphale sighs, wistful with remembrance. “Oh, Saturnalia.  _ That  _ was a celebration.”

“Lots of wine,” Crowley says, by way of a compliment to the human holiday. 

“And the  _ games _ , Crowley. Oh, and the decorations! It was so darling, wasn’t it? What was that-that plant?” Aziraphale waves his hand in Crowley’s direction, gesturing above his head. “The plant the Romans hung over doorways? To keep evil spirits at bay.”

“Mistletoe,” Crowley answers automatically.

Aziraphale smirks, delighted at the joke Crowley knows he’s about to make. “Didn’t work very well, did it?”

“Not for you, anyway. Kept inviting me into your home, and I kept not discorporating.”

“Very rude of you,” Aziraphale admonishes.

“Demon,” Crowley counters. With a snap that flicks upwards, he wills a wilting sprig of mistletoe above his head. 

Aziraphale walks over to Crowley, a little too slowly for Crowley’s tastes. Or, maybe not. Crowley likes watching Aziraphale move. Well, more accurately Crowley likes Aziraphale. He regards the sad-looking plant with a similar expression. “You’ve not conjured a very healthy one, my dear.”

“Serves it right, being a parasite.” 

The shock this elicits from Aziraphale is hilarious. “It isn’t?”

“‘Fraid so, angel. Horrible bother of a plant. Points to the Romans for inventing the idea of killing it to hang from doorways.”

Aziraphale’s smile is back. “I thought for sure you were going to take credit for that.”

“Oh, I did, don’t worry.”

“Wily serpent,” Aziraphale says with no trace of admonishment. He reaches up to kiss Crowley softly.

Crowley kisses back, and has an idea.


	2. snow

**Gaul, 58 B.C.**

“This is ridiculous. The Australians, the Chinese, and the Greeks all had it right. Set up shop in temperate to warm climates.”

“You’re sulking because you’re cold.”

“I’m bloody freezing.”

“Now you’re just exaggerating. We can’t freeze, by design.” Aziraphale shivered, looking more and more like he didn’t believe his own words. “I think.”

Crowley thought about catching hypothermia out of spite, then thought better of it. 

“I still don’t understand what you’re  _ doing  _ here, exactly.”

In his periphery, Crowley could see Aziraphale looking at him expectantly for an answer. Crowley didn’t have to tell him a hell-damned thing. He could keep his infernal plans to himself, thank you very much.

“Oh, you know. Here to make sure Crassius stays on track, keeps on conquering Gaul.”

He didn’t  _ have  _ to tell Aziraphale anything, but maybe he wanted to.

“You?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale wraps himself further in his furs, looking decidedly at the horizon and not at Crowley. “Some healing here and there, making sure not too many soldiers die on this damned expedition.” Aziraphale gave his own askance glance. “Hell really sent you to make sure this all went correctly?”

“A failing empire raiding a previously unconquerable land? No matter who wins, it’s chaos. Downstairs  _ loves _ chaos.” Crowley shivered, glared at the rolling hills and mist surrounding them, at the grey clouds above them. “If it weren’t so  _ bloody _ cold.”

“Ah, it’s not all bad. I think we’re getting snow soon, that’ll cheer you right up.”

“Getting what now?”

Aziraphale’s eyes (big, blue, ~~beautiful~~ _expressive_ ) looked at Crowley fully. The angel looked shocked at Crowley’s confusion. “Snow, dear boy.”

“Ah,” Crowley shrugged. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen it.”

“Really?”

“I’m a sssnake, Aziraphale. I don’t  _ do  _ cold, therefore, I don’t do  _ snow _ .”

“Oh, but I think you’d love it!’

“You better hope I don’t. Demons can’t go around loving...things.”

“Well, then I think you’d enjoy it. Oh!” Aziraphale gasped, pointed to the ground. “There, I was right! It’s starting!”

And, indeed, it was starting and didn’t seem likely to stop. The snow didn’t fall like rain did, heavy and then explosive. Snow was something else entirely. It fell at a wind-carried angle and landed silently. It stayed still, covered the dead grass. It piled upon itself, higher and higher, drowning the safe earth (Crowley liked the dirt, liked the ground, sought comfort in his slithering, it was easiest to hide among the tall grasses). 

Crowley invited Aziraphale into his tent with a silent gesture, and they both watched the snow gather around them. They saw the wonder on the soldiers’ faces, the ease the snow brought despite its alarming downfall. Crowley stuck his hand out into the wind and sleet of it, saw the frozen intricacies land still on his cold-blooded skin, unchanged. Aziraphale copied him, put out his arm beside his. The snow melted instantly when it touched Aziraphale, changed into water droplets, decorational freckles. 

Beautiful, sure, but demons don’t tend to appreciate beautiful things. So, completely on protocol, Crowley pulls his arm back into the warmth and says. “Ridiculous.”

Aziraphale, completely on protocol, replies “Oh, hush.” The smile that accompanies the remark isn’t strictly angelic, but Crowley won’t comment on it. Yet.


	3. nutcracker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is probably the prompt fill I'm the most proud of???

Saint Petersburg is wretched in December, but in a way that Crowley adores. Lots of miserable Russian-flavored humans simultaneously hating the cold and reveling in it. The cold in Russia infects, settles on the skin and seeps into pores and stays there. Bone-chill cold, a frigidity that burns, and that’s why Crowley likes it. He shouldn’t, by all accounts. Cold-blooded creatures crave warmth, that is their nature, so by logic it is also Crowley’s nature. A cold so deep that it simulates warmth is right up a demon’s alley, though.

So. Saint Petersburg, Russia. December. Arguably the worst time to be in Russia, but has there ever been an ideal time to be in Russia? And isn’t that exactly why Crowley’s here now?

(No. No, it’s not)

Crowley was sent here to perform two minor temptations and influence a major political upheaval, and that had taken all of two hours. He was a little too good at his job, when he applied himself, but best not to let Downstairs in on how good his work ethic could be.

He has some free time before he has to be back in England, is the point.

There’s a new ballet premiering tonight.

With a thought and a snap, he procures the topmost box in the theatre, stage left. And a pair of opera glasses, obsidian black (like his waistcoat, like his jacket, like his shoes.)

(Not like his cufflinks. Those are emerald.)

There’s a new ballet premiering tonight, choreography by Petipa and Ivanov, with a score and libretto by Tchaikovsky.

The theatre is warm. Too warm. Crowley should love it.

Crowley uses the obsidian opera glasses to look around the too-bright theatre, gaudy and golden. He doesn’t need the glasses to see, obviously, but appearances are everything. And they make him feel fancy, and isn’t that how one should feel at a ballet?

Aziraphale would love this place, Crowley thinks. Hates himself for thinking it. He’s spent the better part of thirty years attempting to not think about the angel and, more often than not, thinking too much about the angel.

_(fraternizing? obviously. the feeling is mutual. what if it all goes wrong? it would destroy you. )_

Demons relish in self-destruction, Crowley theorizes. Maybe it’s just Crowley.

He looks at the box across from him, topmost, stage left, through the unnecessary lenses. Sees a flash of white-blond hair.

Opera glasses down, then tinted spectacles, just to get a clear line of sight.

It’s definitely Aziraphale.

To Crowley’s horror, Aziraphale is looking directly back at him.

And _waving_.

Crowley wants to glare, to scowl, to tear his eyes away with a force not unlike a slap to the face (soft skin against my jawline, hurt me, break me, you’ve done it before) but he doesn’t.

He waves back. He doesn’t copy Aziraphale’s nervous smile, and the wave he gives is lackluster, but he waves back, nods a greeting.

The theatre’s lights dim, and the overture begins. 

\--

They meet in the lobby after the performance is over, standing still as the exiting crowd moves around them, murmurs of disappointment filling the air.

Aziraphale is done up in tuxedo blacks with baby blue accents and that damn tartan bow tie, and Crowley does that thing where he tries to stop thinking about Aziraphale and failing, once again. 

“ _Rad tebya videt_ ,” Aziraphale says, softly, heard impossibly over the disappointed din of the crowd around them. 

( _I’m glad to see you_ )

(Fuck you, angel)

Crowley nods. “ _Privet_.”

If Aziraphale notices the cold response --(he does, of course he does, nothing gets by this angel, no matter how much he plays at being oblivious) 

(but, then…)

_(I need a favor. if it all goes wrong. I’m not an idiot, Crowley. out of the question. I don’t need you.)_

\--then he doesn’t comment on it.

“How did you find the ballet?”

“Derivative.”

“I found the _Pas de Deux_ particularly moving.”

“Truly.”

“The bit with the dancing rats was fun.”

“Riveting. Rodents.”

“Crowley…”

Crowley is being an ass, and he’s being an ass on purpose. He only has this one outlet for anger. This might be his only chance to let Aziraphale know how hurt he is, how frustrated that fight in St. James’ park thirty years ago left him.

(I didn’t watch the ballet at all, I only watched you. I saw how delighted you were at the children dancing, how you scowled at the rat king, how you cried when the sugar plum fairy danced. I only watched you.)

This is not his only chance to show how utterly _pathetic_ he is.

“S’fine, angel. I’m glad you enjoyed the show.”

“I don’t _want_ to talk about the ballet, Crowley.”

“You brought it up!”

“You’re-” Aziraphale cuts himself off, red in the face. He takes a deep breath, eyes closed, but before he closed them Crowley thought he caught a glimpse of divine fury. “You’re impossible sometimes.”

“Oh, wha- me? _I’m_ impossible?”

“Look, Crowley, I’m sorry.”

Crowley smiles, malicious. He knows how to hurt, too; where to dig the knife where it cuts the deepest. He learned from the best. “Don’t let Heaven hear you say that. Apologizing to a demon. That’s grounds for another strongly worded letter, maybe even a demotion.”

The blow lands, Aziraphale’s face falls, and Crowley feels no better for it. “You’re upset, I understand that. I don’t blame you. I wish I could help you, Crowley.”

How many years have they known each other now? Five thousand, give or take a little? That the fear of heaven still sits heavily on Aziraphale’s shoulders is impressive. Crowley took a chance in the park, hoping that Aziraphale had managed to slip just a little, escape from the pressure.

No such luck.

“I’m glad to see you, despite it all. I…” Aziraphale lets his words hang in the air.

Crowley wonders what he would have said. _I missed you. I want you near. I want to forget all of this and run off together._

All of it nonsense.

Crowley decides to speak so he doesn’t have to listen to Aziraphale’s awkward silence. “Fancy a drink? Feel like getting soused. Vodka’s what they do around here, eh?” He gestures towards the gilded entrance, matches Aziraphale’s smile. “I did like the bit with flower waltz.”

“Oh, that was lovely! I’m so sad no one seemed to enjoy it as much as we did.”


	4. cranberry

“Let’s get out of here.”

“Must we? We’ve only just arrived, dearest.”

Wait, go back. You’ve missed the best part.

“I can see why you like this place.”

“Because it’s dark, dim, and dismal?”

“Because it’s full of hipsters.”

“Who the  _ hell  _ told you about hipsters?”

Crowley had, in fact, told Aziraphale about hipsters. Ranted about slow-walking millennials and their obsession with low-point craft beer and their opinions on technology. They wore waistcoats and bowties and claimed irony for it. He ranted for hours about them under wine’s influence.

Of course, the only thing Aziraphale surmised was that Crowley loved hipsters.

“How d’you like your drink, angel?”

“Oh!” Aziraphale looks down, into the ice-red swirl of his empty glass, vodka and cranberry and lime, pouts at it. “I’m not much for liquor, as you know, but this was lovely.”

“Thought you’d like it.” Crowley swirls his own red-ice concoction, looks at his love rose-coloured. He’s still flushing at the ‘hipster’ comment, pretending to ignore a frustration that never existed. He’s not much of a demon anymore, but he’s still got...well, not morals.

Pause.

Aziraphale looks wonderful in this lighting, doesn’t he? Red lights reflecting pink off his hair and his coat, Crowley likes to imagine Aziraphale is blushing as well. All sharp lines and pastel softness, an impossibility. Mouth…

Oh,  _ Lord _ , that mouth.

Crowley kisses it, biting. Tart.

“Let’s get out of here,” Aziraphale breathes out.

“Must we?” Crowley kisses pucker-sour, grins. “We’ve only just arrived, dearest.”


	5. choir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Human!AU where Aziraphale is a frazzled church choral director, and Crowley is a tenor soloist.

_ Hello, Anthony! It’s Aza. Want to give you a ring sometime soon, will you let me know what time would be convenient? -AZF _

His phone rings not two minutes later.

“You know, you don’t have to text to schedule a phone call, you can just call me.”

“I didn’t want to bother you if you were busy!”

“Voicemail, Aza. I would have gotten back to you.”

“Well,” Aza changes the subject, because he doesn’t have a rebuttal and he’s a little embarrassed for it. “Anyway. How are you?”

There’s a chuckle on the other line. “That’s why you had to schedule this call? Ask me how I’m doing?”

“No! Well, yes. I mean—”

“I’m fine, Aza. Good. How are you?”

“Splendid, thank you.”

“Riveting conversationalist you are.”

This is not at all going to plan, but Aza should have expected this. Historically, things just don’t go to plan at the most inopportune times. The last twelve hours have been no exception.

“Anthony, I have a favor to ask of you.”

“There it is!” Crowley’s triumphant tone is infuriating, and Aza knows he means it that way, which only makes it endearing. “Been, what, two years since we’ve seen each other? And you need a favor.”

“Anthony, really, it’s not like that at all.”

“A’right, I’ll shut it.” Crowley’s voice hasn’t lost the teasing edge to it, but it does ease Aza out of his embarrassment, if only minutely.

“I was wondering if you had any plans on Christmas Eve?”

There’s a beat of silence from Crowley, this one not nearly as amused. “Nothing concrete, as far as I’m aware. Why do you ask?”

Aza sighs. “It’s all gone belly-up, Anthony. We’re—you know, my church choir—are supposed to perform at our Christmas Eve service. We’ve been practicing for weeks now, it’s a whole affair. But my tenor soloist got  _ laryngitis  _ and can no longer perform.”

“Oh, the gall.”

“I know, it’s completely unprofessional, I would never—” Aza cuts himself off, narrows his eyes as if Crowley can see him. “You’re teasing me.”

“Only always.”

“You’re a menace.” Aza continues talking over Crowley’s laughter. “The rest of my tenors are passable, but none of them can perform quite at the level I want.”

“You always were a perfectionist.”

“I suppose I could cut the piece entirely, but it’s so beautiful, ties the whole event together. So, I was wondering, if you weren’t doing anything—”

“Sure, I’ll do it.”

Aza freezes. He had a list prepared in order to convince Crowley to help him, an itemized order of every time Aza had helped him with an audition, or covered for him when he missed practice, or held him up when the two of them stumbled home absolutely trashed. It had been—oh, good gracious, it had been eighteen years since uni, how did the time fly so fast?—but Aza was sure that favors of that sort didn’t have an expiration date. This was all moot, though, since Crowley apparently didn’t need convincing.

“Really? You’ll do it?”

“Why not? I don’t have a gig until after New Years, so my schedule’s all free.”

“Oh, thank you for reminding me, I won’t be able to pay you much, but we can—”

“Ah, don’t do that. Pro bono. I still owe you, anyway. For Paris.”

It’s Aza’s turn to laugh. “Nineteen ninety-nine, right? It’s a miracle we both made it back to the hotel.”

“And you paid for crepes.  _ And _ you kept me upright for our performance the next day, which is the only reason I still have a career today.”

“My dear boy, I don’t think it’s as dramatic as  _ that _ .”

“Whatever. I still owe you.” The fond tone of Crowley’s voice is what Aza had missed the most, a bullet point on another itemized list of attributes that Aza simultaneously tried to ignore and obsess over. “When do you need me?”

Wording, Aza’s arch nemesis. “We have a rehearsal tomorrow night at eight, and then obviously the performance the evening after. We’re performing some hymns, but I only need you for the solo in Schubert’s  _ Psalm 92 _ .” 

“German? What the hell kind of church are you running?”

“Do you know it?”

“I can know it.”

Aza melts at the insinuation. He tries to deflect, insist that he has someone else he can ask, it’s ridiculous to ask Crowley to learn a new piece overnight, but Crowley insists. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow night, angel.”

_ Angel, angel, angel, angelangelangel. _

In the silence afterwards, Aza can’t stop his hands from shaking, his heart from beating wildly. 

_ Angel _ , Crowley’s old nickname for Aza, started off as a joke. Aza had offered to play accompanist during one of Crowley’s practices for a show, and the name was the first form of thanks Crowley offered in return. It made Aza blush then, and it makes him blush now, apparently. 

Entirely unbecoming behavior of him, acting like a schoolboy with a crush. He hopes it subsides by tomorrow.

\--

It does not.

“Oh, you have  _ got _ to be kidding me.”

Anthony J. Crowley saunters into Word Ministries, backlit by the atrium’s lights, and still as maddeningly good-looking as he was a year previous. Draped in all-black and designer sunglasses. His hair had grown out since they’d last seen each other.

“Oh, he’s  _ well _ fit, isn’t he?”

Aza whips his head to Tracy, who’s appeared very suddenly beside him. “Mrs. Shadwell, really.” She’s not wrong,  _ obviously _ , but it wouldn’t do to immediately agree with the alto soloist.

“If the Lord gave me eyes, I intend to use them.” Christ preserve him, Aza really wasn’t going to survive the evening. “Is that our replacement tenor, Mr. Azariah?”

“Indeed.” Aza steps forward, willing himself to smile at Crowley, hoping to God he doesn’t look a fool. “Anthony!”

Crowley takes off his ridiculous spectacles, returns Aza’s smile. “Wotcher, Aza.”

Aza can only smile in return. It’s ridiculous. They’ve been friends for years, if not a little absent for the past few, but that’s true adulthood. Aziraphale wishes he could find something better to say than “It’s good to see you. I really can’t thank you enough for this.”

“Don’t mention it. Didn’t have any pressing plans for the holidays anyway.”

Aza gestures towards the front of the room, and they walk up the aisle together. “I have an extra copy of the sheet music, if you need it.”

“Don’t bother,” Crowley holds up a previously-unnoticed briefcase. “Printed it earlier. Wanted to practice before I arrived, can’t be looking like a git in front of your parishioners.”

“I’m not a priest, Anthony. They’re not  _ my  _ parishioners.”

“Your little choral minions, then?”

“I’ve changed my mind, we’re singing  _ I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas  _ now. You’ll be performing in a Santa outfit.”

“That’s what I get for working for free, is it?”

Aza can only chuckle in response, fresh out of witticisms, but full of startling realizations. 

The most pressing? That, after a twenty-year friendship, he still fancies Anthony J. Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO  
> I got 3,000 words into writing for this prompt before I realized that this would serve way better as a whole fic, so for now you're getting this cute lil snippet.  
> I've got a whole ass fic in the works just from this bloody prompt, so look forward to that in the future. it'll be this plus a lot of uni!AU backstory.


	6. chestnuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is a sequel to [dragon_with_a_teacup's "Wrapping Paper" prompt fill](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21626617/chapters/51845545) so I would HIGHLY suggest reading that first, otherwise this won't make a lot of sense.  
> Human!AU once again, this time where Crowley is an agitated wrapping paper clerk, and Aziraphale is a very cute cashier.

The two of them walk in silence along Brompton Road. It’s most likely due to the cold and wind, but Crowley can’t help but agonize that it’s actually because Az has realized how boring Crowley is and will tell him so any minute. In order to prevent that, he begins to ramble. “Uh,” Crowley clears his throat to try and hide his stumbling words. “Is it a’right if we don’t go to Starbucks? I know it’s a traditional ‘casual first date’ place, but I can’t stand it.”

“Oh, is this a first date?”

Crowley really does stumble at that, physically and verbally backpedaling. “Wait, uh, no? Definitely not. I mean, I thought—”

Az’s laugh interrupts Crowley’s awkward diatribe. “I’m joking, dear. You really are too easy to tease.” An apologetic smile accompanies his observation, and it makes Crowley flustered for an entirely different reason.

In order to regain some sort of dignity, Crowley narrows his eyes, pretends to be cross. “I take back my ‘angel’ comment, you’re actually a bastard.”

“Hopefully not too much of one that you’ll cancel our date.” 

Crowley shrugs, still irritated at himself for his persistent blush.“Nah, if anything you being a little bit of a bastard made me more excited.”

It’s Az’s turn to blush at that, which is easily hidden in the depths of a cream-and-navy flannel scarf, but Crowley caught a glimpse of it before it disappeared. It’s a very nice blush. Everything about Az has been nice, so far, which makes Crowley wonder why he fancies Az so. Crowley is decidedly not that nice, not in comparison. Crowley then remembers Az’s ill-hidden ogling from earlier, and feels a little vindicated. 

After a right turn on Montpelier, they arrive at their destination, and Az’s reaction is immediate. “Oh, my!”

“Nice, innit?”

The cafe is nice: warm light permeates the space, cozy chairs take up the majority of the floor area. The most noticeable feature, though, are the illuminated walls, lined with rows and rows of chocolates, nuts, chocolate covered nuts, and delicacies befitting a French patisserie rather than an English cafe.

“Order whatever you want.”

Az looks up at Crowley, eyes wide with possibility. “Are you sure? I was going to get something to eat, I’m positively  _ famished _ , but you don’t have to—”

“Az, order whatever you want. My treat.”

Az stares up at Crowley, expression soft and fond, and it makes Crowley wants to do something disgustingly domestic like squish Az’s cheeks and tell him how pretty he is. Their fond staring contest is interrupted by a polite cough from their barista, which makes Az jump and begin ordering (large cup of earl grey, cinnamon roasted chestnuts, and a cranberry biscotti). 

“Single espresso. For here.”

“Is that all?”

“Fine. Make it a double.”

“Crowley, really,” but Az’s voice holds no real irritation.

Crowley manages to snag them two seats at the front of the cafe, by the window overlooking the street. Montpelier is bustling with people, all of whom are apparently impervious to the chill. The windows of the shops across the way are bedecked in fairy lights and tinsel. Crowley, admittedly, is a bit sick of the permeating Christmas spirit (working in retail will do that to a person) but he can't deny how uplifting it is currently.

Crowley turns from looking out the window, watches as Az...well, Crowley finds it hard to describe what, exactly, Az is doing. He’s enjoying his tea and biscotti, no doubt, but in a way that makes Crowley blush again. He closes his eyes after each sip of tea, lips quirked into a self-satisfied smile. The appreciative moan, soft but unmistakable, after each bite of biscotti is sinful. He’s not eating in a way that’s overtly obnoxious, yet Crowley cannot stop looking and hearing and enjoying the sight. 

He takes a too-large sip of his espresso and burns his tongue. 

“So,” Az takes another sip of his tea. “How long have you wanted to ask me out?”

Crowley goes to take another drink, realizes he’s drunk all of it, pretends to take a sip anyway. “Ah, you know…” he trails off, hoping that Az will conveniently forget his question. When he doesn’t, and continues to look at Crowley expectantly, Crowley has no choice but to relent. “Pretty much since I first saw you.”

By Az’s expression, it looks like he wasn’t expecting that answer. A winning combination of shock and affection fills in Az’s smile. “You’ve got me beat, then. I resolved to ask you out around a week ago. The time since has been spent, how do the Americans say it? Psyching myself up?” Az shakes his head. “Anyway, it only resulted in making me feel more nervous.” Crowley’s not an expert in Az expressions yet, but he gets the feeling Az wants to say something more. Instead, he pops a few of the chestnuts into his mouth, wriggles in his seat with pleasure at the taste.

“Nervous?” Crowley leans forward, rests his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. “Do I make you nervous, angel?”

“A little, at first.” The honesty surprises Crowley, but Az continues as if it’s totally normal to admit his feelings. “You waltzed in, all hips with your hair done up gorgeously, either smiling at everyone as if you could sense their desires, or scowling at them as if you were judging them for it. But, of course, then I  _ talked  _ to you and found out you were a huge nerd.”

If Crowley had any more coffee to choke on, he would have at that statement.

Az continued, unperturbed. “And after that I was significantly less nervous. And here we are.”

“Here we are,” Crowley repeats. He lowers his hands to the table, but doesn’t move his head, wanting to be as close to Az as possible. He could write it off as wanting to be close enough to hear him in the busy cafe, but there’s no need for excuses like those at this point. “Been wondering, are you seasonal? At Harrod’s?”

“Full time.” Az makes a face at his answer. “Unfortunately.” He glances around at the cafe, eyeing the other patrons. “I’m done after this season, though. You’re the first to know.” Az takes a celebratory bite of tea-dunked biscotti. 

“Congrats on escaping retail, then.” Crowley examines Az’s smile, surmises that there’s more to be told. “Where to next, then?”

“Entrepreneurial affairs, my dear. I’m opening up my own book shop.” Az is practically vibrating at his words as if this is the first time he’s said them out loud, which it most likely is. 

Crowley can’t help but join in Az’s enthusiasm, beaming right back at him. “Much better than retail, that. Another congratulations.” 

“Thank you.” Az nods at Crowley. “How about you, then? What do you do when you’re not beautifully wrapping gifts and tying the most perfect bows?”

If Az keeps this up, Crowley is bound to die from embarrassment or blood loss, due it all rushing to his cheeks. “Bit of this, bit of that. Worked at a nursery when it was warmer, I nanny every once in a while, and now gift wrapping. Everything under the sun, almost. I’m flexible.”

“I bet you are.”

“ _ Jesus _ , Az.” Crowley buries his face in his arms, Az’s ill-hidden chuckles in his ears. “It’s two in the bloody afternoon. We’re not even  _ drinking _ , how the hell do you say those things so calmly?”

“I’m sorry to say that I have no filter.” Az has to finish laughing before he can continue. “I do apologize if I made you uncomfortable, though.”

“No, nope. It’s fine.” And it is fine, even though Crowley’s voice sounds strained. “Just wasn’t expecting you to be so forward.” He lifts his head, knowing how to get the proverbial ball back in his court. “I like it.”

“Do you?”

Crowley nods.

“Try one of these chestnuts.”

Crowley blinks, startled at the sudden change in conversation. “They’re yours, though.”

“I insist, please. They’re decadent.”

Crowley shrugs in assent. 

Before he can reach for them, though, Az is there, holding a chestnut to Crowley’s lips. They stare at each other. Instinctually, Crowley opens his mouth to accept the morsel, never once looking away from Az’s intense gaze. Az pushes the chestnut forward, his thumb brushing against Crowley’s lower lip in the process. In response, he licks at the pad of Az’s thumb, the heat of his skin mixes with the cinnamon-sugar already melting on his tongue. Crowley no longer cares if he’s blushing, simply relishes the feeling of Az’s fingers stroking his jawline. 

Az lets out a heavy breath. “Forward enough for you?”

Before Crowley can answer, the table beneath him vibrates, twin alarms shaking Crowley from his trance. Crowley and Az both glance at their phones, and then at each other. “Breaks over.”

“We should get back.”

They stand simultaneously. 

“What time are you off?” Crowley asks, hopeful.

“Six, you?”

“Same. Wanna get dinner after?”

“What would you say to some sushi?”

Az takes his arm as they walk back together, sugar-fueled and cinnamon-high.


	7. eggnog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here, y'all. have some atmospheric smut. I promise it follows the prompt, cross my heart.

“Oh, you lush thing, you. Laid out like a feast. How fitting.” Crowley’s voice, spirant, spreads over Aziraphale’s shoulders. It leaves gooseflesh in its wake, which is a voluntary reaction. Every reaction Aziraphale makes is voluntary; he chooses to shiver, to quake, to blush deep red rivalling Crowley’s wine-stain hair. 

He chooses to love Crowley, which is a comfort and a condemnation. He’s a demon, though. Demons thrive on condemnation. If he hadn’t already been to Hell and back innumerable times, he’d be on track for it now, with his lascivious fingers and exhalations, temptation incarnate.

Incarnate, but not singularly.

“How does an angel,” Crowley pauses, a kiss to a collarbone, “get to to be so  _ tempting _ ?”

Aziraphale, eyes closed—he knows the movement and motion of Crowley’s mouth, knows the route that it takes down, down,  _ down _ , and keeps his eyes closed because he chooses to feel the pleasure it brings—hums in prefix to his response, “I learned from the best.”

Crowley digs his nails deeper into Aziraphale’s hips, undone by the slow pour that is Aziraphale’s voice as it drips into his mind, pools into memory. “Nah, think you’re a natural,” moves, grips lower. “Spread your thighs for me, gorgeous.”

Aziraphale doesn’t argue—he’s so good at arguing, at teasing, drawing the feeling out, letting the pleasure linger—but he’s also indulgent, craves instant-gratification.

Crowley’s the same in that he’s so  _ ready  _ to gratify, to acquiesce, to indulge the angel’s wants and whims.

The graze of touch on Aziraphale’s skin doesn’t stop, Crowley never lifts his hands, but he does lean closer. There’s that ghosting breath again. “Tell me what you want, angel.” 

“You.”

Crowley shivers, digs his hips into the mattress beneath him, seeking pressure and the press of pleasure. “Your wish is my command, sweetheart.” 

Aziraphale’s moans pour out, awash with incredulity and pleasure, anointing Crowley, praising the worship. What else could Crowley possibly do but worship an angel willing to spread and succumb and spill out and be savored? 

Crowley holds onto Aziraphale’s thighs, basks in their warmth and their light. Heavy cream and nutmeg, thick beneath his fingertips, enough to hold onto, not enough for Crowley’s selfish need. He would have all of the angel, if allowed. The angel will allow it. 

**Author's Note:**

> also [I'm on tumblr](https://writingelizabeth.tumblr.com/) now. haven't had one for a few years, might not keep this one very long, we'll see!


End file.
